


Why’d it have to be so sunny? (The sun shouldn’t shine without you.)

by AToZRainToBe



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Toby Smith | Tubbo Angst, Toby Smith | Tubbo Misses TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AToZRainToBe/pseuds/AToZRainToBe
Summary: ‘A realisation hits Phil in the face like a truck. “Wi- Ghostbur,” Phil says, turning to his grey-scale, translucent, actually-dead son. “You definitely told Tubbo that Tommy’s alive, right?”’To get away from Dream, Tommy agrees to fake his death, going with the cover story that he jumped from the pillar in Logstedshire. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Tubbo.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 956
Collections: Purrsonal Picks, Tommy and Tubbo Friendship Supremacy





	Why’d it have to be so sunny? (The sun shouldn’t shine without you.)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mentions of suicide, grief, self deprecation.

“Surely not,” Tubbo breathes, staring up at the tower of mismatched blocks up above. “He wouldn’t- No, surely not.”

It’s a blur of motions until he’s standing at the base of the tower, hand extended as if he could, possibly, touch it. A lump settles into his throat as his vision blurs, causing him to retract his hand and scrub, desperately, at the tears in his eyes. “Surely- He- No, no, he wouldn’t-”

His mouth is a mess, a jumble of words pouring from his lips, and he doesn’t register any of them. The feeling of dread settles in his chest. It twists in his gut and steadily spirals up, until it’s pouring from his eyes in the form of hot, heavy tears he tries to wipe away. It keeps spilling out, until he screws his eyes shut and lets his knees give out from underneath him. 

Fists pound against the base of the tower half-heartedly as he sucks in a few choked inhales, adding to the bundle of pain and confusion in his stomach. Static fills his mind, everything too loud and too fast as he keeps breathing in but never breathing out, hoping for a hand on his shoulder or a sign that his best friend isn’t reduced to a translucent mockery of who he was before. 

He screams. He screams and he won’t stop screaming, fists balled together against the pillar’s dirt base. He screams because Tommy is gone, he screams because he’s the one who killed him, he screams because he wasn’t there. He screams because he’s here, now, and time is up. He screams. 

When he stops screaming, his voice is raw and hoarse, tingling with pain he barely registers. His hands feel empty, lifeless and wrong as they lay on his lap, his body wracked with broken sobs and shards of memories past. 

Autopilot takes control of his body as he picks himself up, breathless and unfocused, alone. His feet rhythmically put themselves one in front of the other, without protest. He wishes he had someone to match his walking pattern with- and, he thinks without any feeling, he would if he had been there sooner rather than later. If he had been there to talk Tommy down, even just to check on his friend. 

What happened to them? To peace? 

Somehow his body manages to make the meaningless walk back to L’manburg feel less like an eternity. He wonders how many times Tommy stopped to look at the lava as he made the winding paths, considering it’s heat the same way Tubbo does now. He wonders if they share that in common, the desperate longing for warmth. 

It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Tommy is dead. Cold, alone, and in a very much not Tommy-like way, but he is dead. Dead as he can ever be, and Tubbo has no idea how to handle the emptiness that settles into his heart where a loud, blonde boy should be. He clutches the compass to his chest, but all it does is taunt him, remind him of the place where he left his best friend to die. 

And, like the sick monster he is, he can’t feel anything other than his heartbeat, pounding in his head, and his feet, hitting the floor in a hollow, rhythmic pattern. 

The hole in his heart grows a little deeper, his hands a little less steady, his mind a little more empty. L’manburg is not the same anymore, the glowing of warm lights nothing but a taunt, reminding him that despite the homely feeling- Did Tommy scream? Did he cry out for Tubbo? Did he-

He can’t afford to think about it. But god, he wishes he knew. He wishes he knew whether Tommy missed him the way he missed Tommy. He wishes he’d been there to say he was sorry, to comfort him, to stop whatever the hell it was that made that reckless little blonde boy decide to jump. His feet keep walking forwards. 

There’s no point to it, but they do. Until they stop, and Tubbo realises he’s still crying, the tears spilling from his eyes like his life depends on it. “Tubbo?” Someone says, and he tilts his head up to find Sam staring at him, frowning. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

He needs someone to hold. He needs to know that someone is there. With shaky hands, he stumbles forward until he’s clutching onto Sam like his life depends on it. He breathes out, wrecked and sad and empty, because God dammit, he’s only sixteen, and-

“Woah, hey,” Sam’s voice is grounding, ringing in Tubbo’s ears as he scrunches his eyes shut. He has to say it, has to tell someone, but the words get stuck in his throat. Admitting it makes it real, makes the pillar and the loneliness too real, and even if he knows he should, he doesn’t want to. “Tubbo, what’s wrong?”

“Sam- Sam, I-“ Tubbo lets himself be dragged to the wooden floor with Sam, letting himself fall against the man. “Oh god, I- I’m sorry I-“

“Tubbo, it’s fine,” He can hear the frown in Sam’s voice. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s like the world stops, and Tubbo can do nothing to start it again. He vaguely registers that Sam is still there, but it’s not the same, it’s not what he wants. 

“He’s dead, Sam. He’s dead, and- and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

-

“Did you hear?” Phil says, tugging off his boots and leaving them by the door before he walks in. “Tommy’s dead.”

“Wow, what a shame,” Techno responds from where he sits on the windowsill, cape draped over his back. Phil chuckles, dusting the snow off of his outfit. 

They barely get a moment of silence before Tommy is clambering up the ladder and digging through the chests. “Where the fuck do you keep your food? And I mean shit that isn’t golden apples or potatoes or carrots. Like, steak or some shit. Where do you keep the fuckin’... real food?”

“Y’know, Phil, sometimes I can still hear Tommy’s voice,” Techno says, turning his head to face the white wasteland beyond his house. For a moment, Tommy stares between Phil and Techno, watching as his father places a comforting hand on Techno’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay, I miss him too,” Phil says, all comforting, as if Tommy isn’t standing in the room with them. 

“I’m right here?” Tommy starts. “Have guys fuckin- gone crazy or some shit? I’m right here!”

Phil laughs, sitting on the floor near Techno. “Hi, Tommy.” 

“Hi! Fucking finally!” Tommy throws his hands up, turning back to the chests. “Are either of you gonna answer my fuckin’ question? Where the fuck is some decent food?” 

“You could always go get some steak on your own mate,” Phil offers up. “It’s better than sitting around complaining.”

“But that’s so much work!” He groans. “I don’t wanna work! I have so much better things to do with my time! Do you know how long it would take to find a cow? I don’t have time for that shit!”

“You could trade with the villagers,” Phil shifts. “That only takes five minutes.”

Tommy groans. “Can’t one of you do it? I can’t be fucked.”

“You’re the one who wants steak, Tommy,” Phil responds. “It’s only five minutes of your time.”

“I don’t wanna waste five minutes on fuckin’ villager trading,” Tommy whines. “What kind of idiot doesn’t keep steak in their chests? This is all on you, Blade. I ain’t no child worker, bitch! Get some decent fucking food, I don’t have time to do your dirty work!”

“You’ve got plenty of time, you’re dead,” Techno responds.

“I’m not fucking dead!” Tommy yells. “But I- y’know what? Y’know what, Blade? I’ll die out of rage! Yeah, bitch! If I don’t get some decent fucking food I’m gonna die out of rage!”

“Oh, speaking of death, Tubbo’s doing a great job selling that to L’manburg,” Phil muses, watching Tommy grumble as he gathers gear to go out, mumbling about betrayal and the cold. “If I didn’t know that Ghostbur told him we were faking Tommy’s death, I’d think that he actually believes Tommy’s dead.”

-

Tubbo stares at the floor. 

The windows have right angles. The door is cracked open. His desk is filled with paperwork. His shoes are recently polished, outfit recently washed, eyes blank. The windows have right angles. The door is cracked open. His desk is filled with paperwork.

His desk is filled with responsibility. The door lets him hear everyone that passes. He wishes he had the anger that Tommy once had, so he could smash the windows and tear the right-angled corners off of them. He stares at the ground. 

How did he fuck up so badly?

Smooth, cold metal does its best to tether him to the floor. But he finds that even without the tether, he couldn’t bring himself to move. The windows have right angles, and the sun is shining, but it all means nothing anymore. It’s all hollow, empty repetition. His breathing feels too heavy, his lungs too full, his eyes watery. 

Someone walks past his office, he hears the tap of their shoes, and the door is cracked open. He stares at the floor. His desk is filled with the world’s problems and he is responsible for their solutions. 

Tommy is dead. Tommy, his Tommy, is dead. The compass in his hands points to the place his best friend died. 

The windows have right angles. Brown colours the wooden floor. His shoes reflect the gentle light of his office. He can’t cry. He can’t cry anymore. Exhaustion tugs at his bones, but he doesn’t give in. Somehow, he doesn’t have the energy to give in to sleep, and despite his tiredness even sleep doesn’t sound appealing. 

He coughs. He doesn’t even bother to stop himself when more hot, heavy tears pour from his eyes, and the headache he’d only just fended off settles behind his eyes once more. 

A bee buzzes past his window, and he almost has it in him to smile.

Almost.

Dream lets himself into Tubbo’s office. The door swings open and closes with a gentle click. Tubbo barely has it in him to miss the connection with the outside world, as he slips his compass into his pocket and sits forward. He wipes his eyes and says; “Dream, so nice to see you.”

“Likewise,” Dream takes a seat. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

Tubbo nods. Light streams through the windows, which have right angles, and his desk is filled with paperwork he tries to sort to one side. There’s so many problems, so many finalities and small loopholes and things to fix, Tubbo almost wishes he could drown in them just for the sake of making a point. He almost wishes he had a best friend, an alive best friend, to drag him away and let him rest. 

“Tommy’s dead,” Dream says, and Tubbo catches the way the masked man watches him for his reaction. He tries his best to seem neutral about it, but the words coming from someone like Dream- it confirms it. Dream leans back, crossing his arms and watching Tubbo lay his hands out, leaving the paperwork unsorted and messy. Tubbo wishes the door were cracked open, so he could breathe, so the office didn’t feel so stuffy. “Are you planning a funeral?”

And God, he wishes he had the time to do that. He wishes he had the time to throw Tommy the kind of funeral he would’ve wanted, he wishes he knew what that kind of funeral was. “Oh, uh, Maybe?” He says, clearing his throat. “Did- did you have any ideas? On that front?”

“A few.” 

“Oh, well, maybe we could- could do it together, then? Yeah, that sounds good,” Tubbo forces himself to smile, even if it feels wrong, even if it stings his eyes with tears he can’t cry. Dream looks him over, and Tubbo wonders what’s going on behind the emotionless pin-prick eyes of his mask. 

“Mhm,” Dream leans forward, enough to signify that their little chat is almost over. “I’d like it if we planned it together. A symbol of unity, I think, because we both loved him. We can discuss it tomorrow, if that suits you? After, of course, we talk to the rest of Tommy’s family about it. They deserve to know, don’t you think?”

Tubbo nods. “Yeah, Tomorrow sounds good.” When is that, again? 

It doesn’t matter. Dream will show up and Tubbo will have to deal with it when he does. It doesn’t matter. But it does, Tubbo wants to argue, as the door is cracked open and Dream leaves without another word, it matters because the windows have right angles, because the sun chose to rise, because all of these things happen and keep happening even though Tubbo feels like the world should have ended the minute Tommy hit the ground. 

Alone. Tommy hit the ground, alone. 

Tubbo cries. 

-

When it comes time to tell Tommy’s family, they decide to meet at the church. Well, Dream decides that they’ll meet at the church, and Tubbo doesn’t have it in him to argue. He doesn’t have much left, and such a simple decision isn’t worth a fuss. He wonders if Tommy would agree. The thought leaves a nauseous taste in his mouth. 

If he weren’t caught up in wondering how the world found the ability to look so happy when everything felt so sad, he might appreciate the way purple-tinted light streams through the windows of the church. If things were different, if Tommy were here, if, if, if. Even his imagination is tainted with the loss of someone who flew too high and fell too fast. He takes a deep breath, and prepares himself. 

They arrive together, quiet and serious. It’s obvious to Tubbo, the hole in the middle of their usually whole group. There’s a distinct lack of Tommy, evident in the way they almost leave a space for him when sitting down, in the quiet of their movements. For such a bright room, there is an abundance of dark without Tommy there to light it up. Without loud, almost unbearable yelling. 

He has to bite back tears. It’s fucked up of him to miss someone he helped kill, isn’t it? But he misses him so, so much. In his pocket, his hand curls around the compass that guides him to the place he left Tommy to die, and for a moment he pretends that Tommy is still there, a sea away, waiting with bright smiles and open arms. 

The illusion doesn’t last long. Dream nudges him. “Are you going to tell them, or should I?”

“Right- right, sorry,” Tubbo takes another breath, letting the compass fall back into his pocket as he straightens up. “Uh, well, Tommy’s- Tommy’s dead.” 

His mouth feels tainted with the words, the name of his best friend unfortunately foreign on his tongue. It hurts, but he keeps breathing, focusing on Phil’s pursed lips and Techno’s furrowed brow instead. “I- I think he-” Tubbo takes a breath, blinking back tears as he moves his gaze to his fumbling hands. “There’s- there’s a pillar at his base.” 

“I.. I went to- to visit him,” Tubbo clears his throat and looks towards the windows. It’s a sickeningly nice day outside. “He wasn’t there. A pillar was. I think- I think he jumped, and… and he didn’t… he’s dead.” 

From where the three of them are sitting, Tubbo can see that they’re still processing his words. He feels like some sort of false deity, standing at the front of the church and proclaiming Tommy’s death. It doesn’t help that Dream is standing right next to him, face blank and expression unreadable. Ghostbur fidgets- He’ll probably forget this, Tubbo thinks. He’ll probably forget all the pain and hurt, and Tubbo wonders how many times someone will have to explain to Ghostbur where Tommy is. 

And the thought of Ghostbur, a hollow memory of the man he once was, asking everyone where Tommy is- only to be reminded that Tommy is dead, that he’s not coming back- breaks Tubbo. Tears slip from his eyes as he gasps for breath, trying his best to keep his face steady as salty tears stain his face. Dream places a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, but the action feels double sided, and Tubbo wonders if Dream is crying just as much as he is underneath his mask. 

“We’re going to be holding a funeral,” Dream says, voice steady. Tubbo wishes he had the power to remain as steadfast as Dream. “He is one of the founders of L’manburg, after all, and we all miss him dearly. He deserves it. Can we expect to see you there?”

Tubbo watches Phil nod, eyes flickering to the floor, as if he’s still coming to terms with the fact that his youngest child is dead. They both look towards Ghostbur, who nods (clearly following Phil’s lead, and Tubbo wonders if he even knows why he’s in a church. How long will it take him to forget about Tommy’s death?). Phil takes a deep breath, taking the air that Tubbo can’t, giving him a comforting look- a look Tubbo doesn’t deserve. 

Even with the news of his brother’s funeral, Techno looks hardly bothered. Confusion takes the last of Tubbo’s energy, but even that isn’t enough energy for him to ask about the Blade’s expression. Everyone grieves in their own way, he supposes. 

Dream takes the few strides over to Techno, leaning over the seat in front of him. “Not showing up to your little brother’s funeral?” He says, voice laced with something Tubbo is too tired to consider. Concern, most likely. Satisfaction, perhaps. 

Silence grips the space between the two, before Techno leans ever so slightly forward and says; “I don’t need the crocodile tears of those who threw him to the wolves. Nor do I need to be watched by the wolf himself.” 

In a matter of seconds, Techno is up and out of there, his cape billowing out behind him. Tubbo glances to Phil, hoping to convey as much ‘oh god, what does that mean?’ as he possibly can, but finds Phil gathering himself to leave as well. “I’m sorry- He’s grieving,” Phil steps out of the pews and into the aisle. “It’s Techno. He shows it in the oddest way, but- Sorry, we’ll be there.”

And just like Techno, Philza leaves in a matter of seconds, Ghostbur following behind with a wave and a smile. Tubbo feels sick. 

Dream shifts away from the pew, turning back towards him. The man looks godly, bathed in the purple light of the church windows. 

“Do- Dream, I don’t think they like me very much,” Tubbo says, trying to scrub away the remaining tears, finding his face sticky and shoulders heavy with the weight of his guilt. “But, Ha, that makes sense. I did kind of kill Tommy, didn’t I? I exiled him. I chose not to visit him. I…” 

Dream shifts as if he’s going to comfort Tubbo, but falls short as the boy chokes out a breath. Maybe, Tubbo thinks, Dream’s grieving the same way he is. Maybe Dream has the same hollow feeling whenever he hears the discs, maybe Dream hates himself the way Tubbo does. 

But it doesn’t matter now, because they’re just a god and a boy sitting in a church, a distinct light missing from their lives. 

The guilt on his shoulder settles into his lungs, winding him up in a knot that can’t breathe underneath the heavy, suffocating feeling. It’s like talking to a brick wall, the way Dream makes no comment on his state other than subtle half-finished movements. 

“And, well, the most fucked up thing is,” There are more tears streaming down his cheeks, and he can’t be bothered to move his hands and wipe them away. He deserves the sticky, uncomfortable feeling of the tears settling on his neck and drying where they finish. “The most fucked up thing- it’s that I miss him so much, Dream. I miss him so much, and I’m the reason he’s dead.”

He presses his hands to his chest, choking on his breath. The cold floor of the church stings his knees as he curls in on himself, trying to smother the dull, emotional pain that rises in his chest. Static runs through his tired mind, occupying the space that grief does not. He breathes even though he doesn’t deserve to. It’s pathetic, the mental image he has of himself curled at the feet of someone who’s all-powerful, begging for comfort. It takes him too long to   
realise there’s no one listening. 

Purple-tainted light streams through the windows, colouring every surface it can reach, and Tubbo is alone. Pathetic, alone, and so tired. What did he expect, asking for help from someone who loved Tommy just as much? Surely Dream has realised that Tubbo is responsible. The consequences of an action he thought was right sticks to him like glue, staining his skin and thoughts like blood on a white flag. 

Empty and exhausted, Tubbo takes a shaky breath, sitting up and looking towards the roof. He feels so, so far from himself. Still, the sun is shining, and it’s a beautiful day. A day Tommy might enjoy, if he were here. 

Tubbo wishes it wasn’t. 

-

Their boots crunch the snow beneath them as they walk back towards Techno’s home, disregarding Phil’s house arrest (not that it mattered much, he’d gotten a pass to go to the church meeting and decided that he had every right to simply not return). “Well, that… that happened,” Phil says. “I’m surprised Tubbo managed to stay in character. The kid deserves an Oscar for that performance.” 

Techno grunts. 

“I should probably tell Tubbo he’s doing a good job.”

“Mhm.” 

The wind blows softly across the landscape, and Phil is thankful for the sight of Techno’s house up ahead. He lets their crunching footsteps and Ghostbur’s mindless humming sit in the air around them, avoiding the masked man like a plague. 

“Do you think Friend is okay?” Ghostbur asks, breaking the silence. 

“I’m sure Tommy’s taking good care of him,” Phil responds. The childlike wonder of Ghostbur’s question melts the silence into something softer, more manageable, and Techno slows so that their footsteps fall in time with each other. “You’ll get to see him soon.”

A moment of silence, then; “I did very well keeping our secret, didn’t I?” Ghostbur joins them, not quite touching the snowy ground, but walking nonetheless. “Even though Dream was very upset about thinking Tommy is dead, I didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, you did really well.”

“Dream wasn’t upset.” Techno punctuates his sentence with the speeding up of his walking, leaving Phil and Ghostbur trailing behind by only a few seconds. 

“He wasn’t?” Ghostbur asks. “He seemed really upset. Maybe I should have offered him some Blue.”

“He doesn’t need it.”

Phil reminds himself to breathe, exasperation setting on his shoulders. “Let’s just… get home. At least we know the gremlin hasn’t burnt the house down.” 

It’s a short, silent walk. 

The door creaks as they open it, which wakes the previously-asleep sixteen year old. Tommy looks around, clearly disoriented, sitting up as Friend stands to move towards Ghostbur, who cooes at the blue sheep. Tommy groans. “You guys are so- you’re so fuckin’ loud. I’m sleeping here!” 

Phil chuckles. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not nice, Tommy,” Phil dusts his coat off, placing it on a hook near the door. “You don’t say that to people who are going to attend your funeral.” 

Tommy falls back, smothering himself in Techno’s old robe, which Phil assumes he has been using as a blanket. “I liked it better when you guys were gone.”

-

It’s early morning when Phil visits. It’s a nice gesture, even if Tubbo doesn’t understand the motive behind it. Phil brings smiles and care, sitting down opposite Tubbo’s desk in a much more friendly, less-business way. People don’t often come to visit him for things not related to work. Tubbo wonders if this is really a ‘friendly’ visit. 

Still, he lets Phil take the offered seat. “Tubbo, hey mate,” Phil gives him a smile, voice soft. Tubbo doesn’t deserve it. “I just thought I’d let you know that we’re proud of you.”

What. The. Fuck.

“You’re doing a really good job, mate,” He continues. Philza Minecraft must be going crazy, Tubbo thinks. There’s no way that Tubbo is the one Phil is talking to. “We’re… Yeah. This is such a big job, and you’ve really… you’ve really hit it out the park.” 

Tubbo opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of how to respond to that. Was Phil talking about his job as president? Surely not. That same job had gotten Tommy killed, right? There was no way Philza Minecraft meant to be in his office, telling him he was doing a ‘good job’. He settles his hands on the desk, taking a deep breath, preparing to correct the elder. 

“Tommy’s proud, too.”

And if Tubbo wasn’t sure that Phil was crazy before, he is now. 

“I- Thank you?” What the fuck does he do with this- “I don’t agree. But thanks.”

Is it possible for people to go crazy after you tell them their son is dead? He should’ve researched how to handle grief. Fuck, if only he knew how to gently remind someone that their son was dead. Well, sons. Ghostbur is the least of his worries right now, because apparently Phil was the one who forgot Tommy is dead. Did- Oh god, did Tubbo break Phil? The Philza Minecraft? Technoblade is going to be pissed. 

Yeah, there is no chance that any of Tommy’s family are going to like him after this. Phil gives him a sad smile, and the reminder of Tommy’s death dies on his tongue. He’s so desperate for the gentleness in Phil’s eyes, the comfort in his actions, that he’s selfish enough to take it all and never once remind Phil of what’s really going on. It makes him sick, but not sick enough to stop. 

“Just remember, if you need a break,” Phil sounds so earnest, like he cares, and God, Tubbo misses having someone care. It makes him feel so warm compared to the cold he’s been stuck with ever since he came face to face with that pillar of mismatched blocks back in logstedshire. “You can always come visit. We’d love to have you with us.” 

He’s never going to come visit, and they both know it, deep down. “Thanks.” 

That seems to satisfy Phil. He stands, giving a farewell wave as he leaves, and Tubbo returns it with sheepish guilt. What a sick, twisted freak he is to find so much joy in the comfort of a father that isn’t his, to want that comfort so much that he trades away the truth for a fake attempt at warmth. He’s sickening, and definitely not fit for presidency. 

So he calls a meeting with the butcher army. 

Dream decides he’s invited, and Tubbo doesn’t protest. He can’t risk heightened tensions between countries for an informal meeting with his cabinet, and the news he’s sharing won’t be secret for long, so it doesn’t matter. They pile into the camarvan (even if it is, sort of, a tight fit) and Tubbo prepares himself for what he’s going to say. 

“I’m… stepping down. I don’t want to be president.”

It’s as simple as that. 

Except it isn’t. 

“Tubbo, that’s not necessary,” Dream says. “You’re doing great! Everyone loves you. You’re the first president to bring peace-“

“Shut the fuck up and let him resign, Dream,” Quackity interrupts. “Tubbo, good for you, man. You deserve some rest.”

“Tubbo, if you want rest, you can have it. But you don’t have to step down.”

“Why do you care, Dream? This isn’t your nation.”

“It-“

Why did he ever think this was going to be simple? Quackity and Dream’s voices overlap with each other, ringing throughout the van and providing a perfect background noise to the awkward looks on Ranboo and Fundy’s faces. 

“Dream, this isn’t even your nation. Tubbo doesn’t-“ 

Dream glares, turning to face Quackity instead of Tubbo, beginning to yell. “I’m pretty fucking sure I’d know more about what Tubbo needs right now than you would, Quackity!” 

He sighs. He’s so, so over mediating conflict. He just wants someplace quiet, someplace he can feel close to the happiness he felt before, someplace that isn’t here.

“Tommy’s death has nothing to do with this!” Quackity responds. “He’s sixteen-“

“You know what? Tubbo, tell Quackity you still want to be president,” Dream turns to look at him, a spark of warning in his eyes that Tubbo is more than used to by now. It’s the same spark he sees every time he dares to go against what someone wants. He decides he hates that spark with every fibre of his being. “This was just you asking for a break, right? You don’t really want to step down.”

“No, Tubbo, you’ve said what you want. We can sort things out and get a proper farewell organised. You don’t need to-“

“Let Tubbo say what he wants.”

And he almost has the guts to say that what he really wants is anything other than this. That he wants Tommy back, that he wants something other than war and tense meetings and backhanded compliments that mask dangerous threats. 

Dream frowns. Tubbo realises if he doesn’t answer soon, they’ll have some sort of war or punishment coming their way. New L’manburg only just healed, there’s no way they’ll stand for long against something like the Dream SMP. “I- Yeah, I meant,” He swallows. “I meant a break. I want a break.”

“Good,” Dream smiles. “See, Quackity? Not everyone is so easy to read.”

Quackity shoots a glance to Dream that reads as ‘Fuck off’, and Tubbo knows this isn’t the last he’ll hear of this. But at least he can reason with Quackity, he hopes, even slightly. At least he can compromise or come up with a solution when it’s just between the four of them, he hopes. 

Ranboo and Fundy look at each other, then him, a glance of ‘Are you okay?’ Coming from the pair. Tubbo does his best to look fine, but he’s sure that even the slightest wrong movement will have him breaking down in seconds. 

“Let’s go, Tubbo, we have a funeral to finish planning.” 

God, he needs a thousand-year nap. 

He doesn’t get one. Instead he gets to pick out the kinds of flowers they should lay on an empty casket (Tommy’s body has yet to be found) and where everyone sits. He gets to pick the picture they hang up behind the podium, and plan his speech, and sit while Dream practices his. 

He gets hours upon hours of work with no rest. He gets two nights of wondering whether Tommy would have wanted Tubbo to attend his funeral, and very little sleep. 

The funeral comes. It’s a lovely day, again, and Tubbo is getting sick of lovely days. It’s nothing but a painful reminder that he has thousands of papers to sign, a sprained wrist, and no time to go outside. 

At least the decor looks nice. There is a mix of daisies, poppies, and roses laid in a bundle on the casket. A carefully drawn portrait of Tommy sits behind the podium, a sign underneath detailing who wrote it, but Tubbo can’t look at either. His eyes are glued to the casket, a sleek wooden design engraved with Tommy’s name on the front. They would’ve left it open, if Tommy had been found. 

For a moment or two, just to accept it’s happened, Tubbo stands at the side of the coffin. It’s numbing, staring down at something he never thought he’d see. Numb rage settles into his bones- he shouldn’t have had to see this. Tommy shouldn’t have died. 

But he has. 

His stomach twists into a knot, muscles tense with anxious grief. With the way things are going, he’s never going to grieve for someone again- it feels like he’s never going to finish grieving for Tommy. Every part of him feels sad, sick, and powerless as he thinks of his future- a president for the rest of his days, until he’s useless or dead, whichever comes first. Reminded by every little thing of someone he’ll never see again. 

He takes his seat in the front row, next to Phil, ignoring the guilt that comes with his previous memories. Tubbo’s eyes are glued to his feet. He doesn’t belong here, anyone can tell that. None of them belong here, because Tommy doesn’t deserve to be dead. Tubbo hates the way he feels Phil look at him, the way Ghostbur hums a happy tune and pats Friend, and he wonders if there’s something in pretending that nothing happened. 

It would certainly give him more hope for the future. 

Dream taps the mic to get everyone’s attention, dressed in a suit and armour less. “Hello,” He begins. “It’s a sad day for everyone. This isn’t something I think anyone thought would happen, much less to someone like Tommy...”

Tubbo tunes most of it out. He’s heard it all before, and even helped craft some of it. Instead, he fixated on the way the sun bounces off of the coffin, how bright it is- almost as bright as Tommy himself would be. Phil nudges him, giving him a smile, and Tubbo does his best to match it. 

It’s like glue on his skin, the way Tommy’s memory sticks to him. Everyone he surrounds himself with knew Tommy- hell, his cabinet still isn’t over the exile. New L’manburg will never be the same. Tubbo wonders how many times he’ll have to visit Tommy’s grave before he accepts that his best friend isn’t coming back. 

“So, yeah, Tommy and I were very close before he died. We may have argued, but ultimately, we were good friends- I considered him a brother,” Dream pauses, meeting Tubbo’s eye before glancing at Phil, before settling somewhere behind them, between Techno and Ghostbur. “And now, I’d like to welcome up some of Tommy’s closest friends and family to say a few words.”

He steps down and takes his seat at the far back. Tubbo has half the mind to join him- but he knows Dream is grieving, and doesn’t. Dream deserves the right to be alone. Just because Tubbo envies how calm he is, how easy it is for him to step back, doesn’t mean he has the right to interrupt Dream’s time alone. Speaking of time alone, he needs to plan that break (which, if he thinks realistically, is more of an ideal than a practical situation). 

Phil’s voice echoes through the mic, but to Tubbo it's all a muffled mess. He’s barely blinking back the tears that rise now, and Phil looks so, so serious. At least he’s no longer oblivious, but Tubbo isn’t sure that’s as good as he thinks it is. At least Phil would be able to sleep at night if he didn't know. 

Hell, they’d both sleep at night if they didn’t know. If they had the peace of seeing Tommy, of knowing Tommy was actually dead. They didn’t find a body, there’s a possibility- 

No. There’s no possibility. Tommy is dead and that’s it- it would be a miracle to see him breathing and warmed by life again. Regardless, Tubbo holds onto the hope that maybe one day, they’ll find Tommy and he won’t be a broken corpse. A lump twists itself around his throat, choking him with the memory of his best friend. 

“I would just like to say that, if I knew Tommy at all,” Tubbo tries his best to focus on Phil’s voice, to find comfort in it. “I know he’d be proud of each and every one of you. Maybe he wouldn’t admit it-“

He meets Phil eye. There’s nothing but acceptance, and somewhere in the space between them, that acceptance twists into a dagger of guilt and strikes Tubbo in the heart. “- but he would be. You’ve all done so much for this nation, and he has too. He’d want you all to be happy.”

He doesn’t deserve it. Hell never be happy, never be free, never be anything more than a mediator. He’s so sick of it. All Tommy took with him when he was exiled was his spark and Tubbo’s happiness, never the conflict or the issues they thought he would. Tubbo is sick of it, but there’s nothing he can do, and he is resigned to a lifetime of loneliness and guilt. 

“Thank you.” Phil steps down, taking his seat next to Tubbo, placing a hand on Tubbo’s knee- maybe Phil means well, but the touch stings, leaving him painfully aware of each breath coursing through his body and every little beat of his heart. 

Loud and unbearable, the hammering of his heart refuses to quiet down as he stands. His hands shake, and he almost regrets not making cue cards. But this is Tommy, and he can say just about whatever so long as it’s positive and from the heart. Besides, he hadn’t had time, in between helping Dream and setting up, to sit down and write notes. 

He hadn’t anticipated needing to say very much. By some crazed delusion, he’d thought he would be fine, that anxiety wouldn’t tie his stomach into knots. It’s difficult to breathe, his shoulders feel weighted down and his lungs are filled with something like anxiety and self-consciousness. 

It’s a miracle he makes it up to the podium. If he closes his eyes, he can see the eyes that peer through history and judge every inch of his actions, looking for answers- or something to solidify that he did care for Tommy. He wishes that the world wasn’t so complicated. 

From where he stands now, he can see so many familiar faces in the crowd. Phil, Techno and Ghodtbur sit closest to front on the left hand side, while the members of his cabinet - Quackity, Fundy, and Ranboo - occupy the first rows on the right. From there it varies, with people from the badlands grouped together while George and Sapnap occupy their own isle, and Dream sits in the back. Eret sits beside Nikki and stares back at him with something between proudness and sorrow. He moves his gaze to Sam, who gives him a smile and a nod, enough to make him force out his first few words. 

They’re all focused on him. They’re all focused on him. 

“H- It’s… it’s nice to see so many people here,” Tubbo begins. His words are laboured, each one harder than the last, as he desperately tries to blink back tears and keep breathing. It’s like the most basic human functions, the ones he could previously do with ease, have become the hardest things he’s ever done. “I-I think Tommy would’ve liked to know that so many people cared about him. I…”

He takes a breath. It’s like climbing a mountain. “I know that towards the end, me and him.. had our differences,” He glances at the coffin, and can’t help the tear that escapes. “I wish I‘d told him that I never meant to- to hurt him. That all I wanted was peace, and- and I should have tried a little harder to keep him here.”

“Sure, he was complicated,” Another tear. He doesn’t have the power to fight them. “But he- he lit the place up. Brighter than any Christmas lights. He is-“

Another breath, desperate and shaky, as he falls apart. “-was my best friend. I don’t think anyone can replace him, and the things he… he did. I’m gonna miss him.”

The sun is shining. The leaves are rustled by the small gusts of wind that pass through. Tonight, the moon will rise and shine down on them. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s all mindless repetition, but it’s mindless repetition that he would miss with all his being. It’s repetition for the sake of repetition. Because even if you hate it, even if it weighs you down, there is nothing to do but what you know. 

“I’m gonna miss him.” 

Just like that, he falls apart, sobbing and desperately trying to wipe away the waterfall of tears that streams down his face. “I’m gonna miss him so, so much,” He sobs, trying to ground himself with one hand on the podium. The ground melts into a blurry mess as he stumbles his way down the stairs and back towards his chair. 

Everything is one big mess as he drags his way to the back aisle, sitting down, pulling his legs to his chest and biting down on his hand to muffle his crying. Dream gets up from the row across from him, moving back towards the podium, but his words are a jumbled mess Tubbo can’t make sense of. 

He isn’t sure he wants to. He just wants some sleep. He wants his best friend back. He wants and he wants and he wants, but he can never have. No matter how much he wishes it weren’t true, Tommy is dead. 

Tubbo falls apart, and he isn’t sure he can be bothered trying to put himself back together. 

-

It’s odd. The walk back to Techno’s is quiet. Tommy is quiet. 

They walk together, which is another odd thing. Usually Tommy is running ahead and Phil is the last in the line, joined by Techno, as Ghostbur does his best to keep a middle ground. But Tommy stays in line with them, clearly contemplating something as they walk the white path back to a warm house. 

If Phil wasn’t suspicious before, he is when Tommy doesn’t make a fuss about finally being in from the cold. Instead, the four of them stand inside, staring at the floor and never each other. Maybe it’s the fact they’ve just been to a funeral (for someone who is very much alive, as far as Phil knows), maybe it’s the way Tubbo’s sobbing still rings in their ears, but there is something that needs to be spoken about. 

Tommy hesitates, if only for a moment, before saying; “Did- uh. Fuck, okay, is Tubbo… is Tubbo alright? That didn’t- that hit hard, Philza Minecraft. Big T doesn’t seem… okay.”

There it is. That’s the elephant they needed to address.

A realisation hits Phil in the face like a truck. “Wi- Ghostbur,” Phil says, turning to his grey-scale, translucent, actually-dead son. “You definitely told Tubbo that Tommy’s alive, right?”

“I thought that was a secret!” Ghostbur says, half-question half-statement, cocking his head as if it is a question. There’s a smile on his face, but no one else matches it. His brow furrows as he frowns; “Why? Did I do something wrong?” 

Phil looks at Techno. Techno looks at Phil. It’s as clear as glass, the thought they both share; oh no. Tommy looks like he might actually die, and Ghosbtur looks as obliviously confused as a baby. 

“No- you’re right, it is a secret,” Phil says. He thought the baby talk would be over when Wilbur grew up, and he finds himself struggling to explain. “It’s just- Tubbo was supposed to be in on that secret, mate.”

“Oh,” Ghostbur says. Then; “Oh!”

“Guys. Big men. Biggest of men,” Tommy begins, looking and sounding as if he’ll have a breakdown if Tubbo doesn’t visit right this second. “I’d kind of like to know, y’know, uh, what the fuck do we do now?”

-

It’s been a long day. It’s been a really, really long couple of days. Tubbo’s not sure that days get longer, but he knows they won’t get shorter for him, either. 

Mindless repetition. Someday he’ll break the chain, be it by death or by election. Either or, he isn’t bothered with it anymore. He’d stopped by Tommy’s grave, to say hi, to apologise for making a scene at the funeral. It was the least he could do. 

And he’d barely managed to do that, after a couple hours worth of trying his best to prove to Quackity that he does want to remain President (even if he, deep down, really doesn’t) and juggling his paperwork, which had somehow doubled in the small amount of time he dedicated to a funeral. If that was the base of the cake, the icing on top was that Tubbo barely got any sleep the night before and now, he was paying the price with a headache and weighted limbs. 

He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a bed, but he still had leftover paperwork from last week and the future of the buildings Schlatt had begun to discuss with, again, Quackity. He loved his friends, but meetings like that were almost enough to make him age thirty years. 

Still, he found a minute or two to visit Tommy, and then he was back to his desk. 

His desk. Which now contains a note and compass, lain on the desk, a definite contrast to the sleek white papers of his work. 

That’s new. 

‘Meeting? - Phil’, reads the note. Grabbing his diary and his communicator, he scans over his plans for tomorrow- he can reschedule his meeting with Quackity about the Schlatt buildings to the day after, and if he manages to finish last week’s paperwork tonight there’s a high chance that he won’t have to worry about their deadline, leaving tomorrow free. 

It’s a juggle, and he will need to get back before sunrise the day after tomorrow, but he’ll manage. And he owes Phil the decency to show up, seeing as they did bury his youngest son, second dead. 

He sighs. 

Opening his communicator, he flicks a message to Quackity about rescheduling the meeting, and then a text to Ranboo and Fundy, letting them know that he’ll be out for the day tomorrow. With that out of the way, he gathers his paperwork and settles in for a long few hours worth of work. 

He doesn’t check whether or not people have agreed to his plans, half out of spite and half out of his inability to care. Everything feels bland, uninteresting and repetitive, leaving him with the dull taste of boredom on his tongue. 

The sun is barely above the hill when he starts walking. The compass doesn’t work in the nether, he finds, which has him backtracking out of the community portal and beginning his lone walk towards the needle’s mark. 

His mind wanders- When he gets back from this meeting, he’ll probably need to wash at least a little before he goes to his next. He doesn’t smell now, but he will, most likely. If this walk keeps on the way it currently is. 

There’s something beautiful about the outdoors, Tubbo can’t deny that. The air is crisp and fresh, much better than stuffy offices. It reminds him of the earlier days, when things were peaceful, before elections crossed their minds, back when- 

It reminds him of when he had Tommy. When the two of them could sit around and listen to discs, not a care in the world aside from their budding nation. It reminds him of sunsets. It reminds him of the things he’ll never have again, like freedom. Like childhood. 

Nostalgic, that’s the word. The travel from L’manburg to the meeting point makes him feel nostalgic, as he watches wild bees buzz through leaves and listens to the sounds of rushing water. He has a destination, and he’s moving, but the pace is slow and steady and very much his pace, making the sun shine a little brighter and the sky a little clearer to him. 

For the first time in a while, Tubbo loves the fact it’s a sunny day. 

(It was Tommy’s favourite kind of day, after all. It was the kind of day that meant they could hang out, and even under Schlatt’s rule, Tubbo had always found a way to visit on a nice day.) 

And then he glances at the compass, only to remember where he was headed. 

The day turns sour, the sky’s blue nothing but a bad attempt at being the same shade Tommy’s eyes were, every previous reminder of sweet memories tainted by the atmosphere of the place he let it all fall. 

Did Tommy call out for him? Did Tommy look at his compass, hold his compass close, never let his compass go, the same way Tubbo had? 

He keeps moving. 

Eventually his path leads him to a snowy tundra, making Tubbo frown. He bites back a complaint at the cold (nobody’s around to listen but him, and he has no right to complain). There’s no way he’ll make it to the meeting point (which, if the compass was any consultation, he is still a while away from) if he runs back to get warmer clothes. 

Oh well. He lets his feet drag, tugging on the fabric of his shirt to make sure it covers his skin, and keeps moving. He’ll deal with the consequences later, he owes Phil a meeting. He owes Phil, full stop. The man lost a son, and Tubbo is out here complaining about some cold- 

The compass begins to shake, signifying that he’s close. Without a second thought his feet speed up, rushing towards his final location. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s filled with the first feeling he’s had in a while- a mixture of anxious excitement- at the prospect of seeing Phil again. 

He likes Phil. Phil’s one of the only people who hasn’t tried to manipulate him yet, so that’s a big plus. The only downside is that Phil likes Technoblade, and Tubbo’s cabinet very much does not. 

In his books, Techno is whatever Techno is. He may have died to Techno’s hands, but he understands peer pressure better than anyone else. Oh well, whatever keeps the peace. 

The compass begins to shake a little more wildly, and he glances up in an attempt to figure out if he can see the meeting point- and he can. It’s a house, by the looks of it. There’s a stone foundation, a stable, and the house is made of what looks like spruce wood and logs. There’s a badly-made cobblestone tower not too far from the house- it makes him hurt to wonder if Tommy made it, if Tommy visited this place while he was alive and made a tower to commemorate it. 

It’s disgusting, but the thought gives it a new light. It’s ugly, but it’s Tommy. A little piece of him, left everywhere the blonde went while he was alive. Tubbo wrestles with the conflicting warmth-filled-sadness he feels in his chest, focusing on the half-made house next to the nicer, finished house that Tubbo assumes is their meeting point. 

There’s a soft yellow glow streaming onto the snow from the windows of the finished house, the windows shut (probably to keep the snow from getting in), Techno’s horse Carl waiting- Tubbo pauses. Techno is there. He frowns, inching forward with a little less pep in his step, filled with a mostly anxious buzz. 

Is Phil going to kill him for what he did? For exiling Tommy? Is that why Techno’s here, to get revenge for his brother’s death? 

He’d pause, if he knew there was more than just meetings and paperwork waiting for him at his office. Instead, he takes a deep breath and resigns himself to his fate, dropping his eyes to the compass. He shivers, internally complaining about how wet and cold his feet are getting from this journey. If his ghost comes back perpetually cold, he’s going to scream. 

A door slams open. Tubbo’s eyes snap up to the source of the loud noise, finding his best friend rushing down slippery stairs, abandoning caution to the wind. Wow, he thinks, the cold really is getting to him. In more ways than just the frostbite he’s pretty sure he’s getting in his feet. 

“Tubbo! Tubbo-“ Tommy slips, catches himself, and continues running. From the doorway, an amused Phil watches. “Holy shit that’s cold- Tubbo!” 

It’s all he can do to stand and stare. The compass is forgotten as Tommy approaches him, and without a thought he lets out a quiet, unsure; “Tommy?” 

Breathlessness hits Tubbo the moment that Tommy manages to wrap his arms around him. “Tubbo, you’re fucking freezing,” Tommy pulls away, grabbing Tubbo’s arm to drag him into the house. Holy shit. Holy shit, he must be dreaming. Tommy is warm, tugging him into the house, out of the cold. “You idiot, hurry up. Come on, Tubbo, hurry up.”

“You’re- You’re alive?” He says, and it sounds like a question but it’s more of a true-or-false statement. Tommy laughs, boisterous and loud and so him, it makes Tubbo melt. 

He lets Tommy drag him into the house, past Phil and the rest. “You didn’t think I would die that fuckin’ easily, did you, big T? Takes a bit more than a shitty green man to kill me.” 

Shitty green- oh right. Tubbo blinks. 

“Hold on- wait, no,” Tubbo pulls his hand from Tommy’s. “I’m dreaming. There’s no way you’re alive, and- and you can’t just be so… you. We- I-“ 

“Tubbo,” Phil is beside him now. Tubbo has no idea what happened in the small space between him letting go of Tommy and him speaking, which leaves him disoriented and clutching himself in a self-hug, desperate to keep himself standing. “Mate, listen to me.” 

“I’m dreaming, Tommy’s dead,” Tubbo says, trying desperately to include as much ‘Please, believe me’ in his voice. “Tommy’s dead. And- and I’m dreaming. I- he-“

Tommy is on his other side, hovering but not touching. If this is a dream, if this is just some weird hallucination before he dies, outside in the snow, it’s sick and twisted to lure him in with the promise of his best friend while he’s really cold and alone. But god, he wishes it were real. He wishes he could afford to be next to Tommy, in a warm house, no paperwork or meetings or presidential jobs to do. 

“Tubbo,” Phil smiles, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Stay the night, okay? If this is a dream, you’ll wake up in the morning, and it will have been a lovely dream. If it’s reality, then you’ll wake up with Tommy-“

“Oi Tubbo,” Tommy interrupts, moving Phil out the way so that all Tubbo can focus on is him. “If you were dreaming, would I be able to do this?”

The first thing that registers is that his cheek stings. It’s painful and buzzing, and Tommy is smiling widely at him, hand- “Did you just hit me!?” Tubbo says, putting a hand on his face and pretending to be upset, but he can’t help the smile that crosses his face. Typical Tommy. 

“Yeah, bitch!” Tommy says, hands on his hips, proud as he can be. He’s a little older, and there are a few more scars on his skin, but he’s still Tommy. “Bet you didn’t expect that! I can’t be no fuckin’ hallucination now, bitch!” 

Tubbo wasn’t expecting that. 

Yeah, That’s his Tommy.

**Author's Note:**

> Damn Tommy really hit Tubbo huh 
> 
> Anyway remember to love each other and yourselves !!! Happy new year (I don’t think I’ll post again before then)!!! 
> 
> <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [quiet, like the snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992819) by [ColorsofaYinYang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorsofaYinYang/pseuds/ColorsofaYinYang)




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